


Slow Mornings

by The_Otter_Knight



Series: Bleeding Effect [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Bleeding Effect, Community: asscreedkinkmeme, Crack, Gen, Ghosts, Hallucinations, OR IS IT, Prompt Fill, past canonical character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-22
Packaged: 2020-09-24 07:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20354515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Otter_Knight/pseuds/The_Otter_Knight
Summary: Callum just wanted to drink his coffee in peace. His guests won't leave him alone.





	Slow Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Again, written last year. Reuploaded, briefly edited, and unbeta'd.
> 
> William is incorrectly referred to as the American mentor when that is not the case.
> 
> **Misfire Prompt:**  
I have a lot of feelings about coffee okay?

“I just have a lot of feelings about coffee, you know,” Desmond says and Callum can almost hear the sigh that drags through his body after those words. His hands are firm around the cup, eyes hooded and chin tucked downwards just enough.

Callum has long since gone past the pretense of refusing to indulge his hallucinations. “Really?” His tone is a bit dry, humorless. The corner of Desmond’s mouth twitches, enough for him to know he’s been heard.

“Not me, I think I prefer good old fashioned wine,” comes Clay’s disembodied voice from somewhere to the left. His grin is boyish, eyes wide and arms folding neatly across his chest.

“Didn't think you to be a wine-drinker,” Callum responds, a little bit lower this time because he thinks he sees Moussa’s silhouette down the hallway. It'd just be his luck for him to confirm his insanity in front of the only guy who seemed to like him.

“Sparkling wine is the best,” Clay admits further, “It's a helluva lot like soda. _Fizzy_.” He splays his fingers then, childlike. Callum feels his surprised pleasure take a plummet at that. Although he can't say he was shocked at the correction anyways. Fizzy drinks certainly had seemed to be Clay’s type.

Callum thinks about giving his own input - he has always been a straight up water person himself, especially when it was the cheapest option as a homeless runaway, but scotch had a pleasant burn that took the edge off too. Neither apparitions had asked for his own opinion though, not that it would matter. They weren't real.

Desmond’s eyes flit over to him, a fold prominent in his brows. The way his mouth twisted was familiar. Geez, did he ever need new inspirations to pluck from. That was definitely the same tick there from the American Assassin Mentor that lingered in his face. What was his name? Yards? Kilometres? Some weirdass surname, that was for sure.

“Ezio liked milk in his coffee,” Clay supplies and he leans far back enough that his head dissolves into the wall. Callum is so used to this that he doesn't even blink at it, just feels an unpleasant shudder run down his spine.

“Ezio killed people for fun so I don't really think his opinion matters,” Desmond chides but his expression is smoothing out of that unusual twitch of concern.

Callum supposes that name is supposed to mean something to him, the way they say it. It's a ‘holier than thou’ sort of way, almost breathless. Wouldn't put it past Clay for Ezio to be an Assassin that he essentially had a schoolcrush over. But it definitely was a familiar name, the lilt pronounced and curiously picking at his consciousness. Lin probably mentioned him.

“I suppose you don't like milk in yours then?” Callum offers, directed towards Desmond.

Desmond’s hazel eyes are warm on him when he gives a subtle turn of his head. Clay falls through the wall and gives a holler. “I wasn't a coffee person before. But working late nights, a cup of coffee works well. A shot of vodka or rum can be a good kicker, but flavoured creamer or just sugar works too.”

“You better thank the pretty heavens that you weren't around to see his monstrosities,” Clay’s head says. Just his head. His body seems to be tangled somewhere up on the upper floor, his head through the ceiling now. Callum doesn't even try to understand anymore.

“They weren't that bad,” Desmond defends but it sounds empty, a little too toneless for it to be real banter. He’s staring into the cup again, contemplating. Callum almost feels sorry for him. Almost. Because it's kind of pathetic to feel sorry for something from your own mind, isn't it?

“He almost legit poisoned himself once. _That_ is why I don’t drink coffee often,” Clay’s hand goes through the roof and he begins to pull himself through. His voice rings clearly through even though without a visible abdomen he really shouldn't be able to breathe let alone talk. Clay has always been the weirder of the two. “You just don’t know when it’s going to kick it and expire and have it conspire to murder you! And that’s ignoring the alcohol!” He doesn't even wait for an answer, just continues on with, “If it wasn’t for that, in all honesty, I’d almost think my good ol’ buddy Des might’ve been trying to drink himself to death that morning.”

“Alcohol helps a lot as an Assassin,” Desmond says, not in defense because he's looking at Callum as he says it. It sounds as a statement of fact rather than personal preference. He takes a long sip from the cup and peers down with heavy melancholy.

“Helps you forget?”

“Yeah. And other things.” Desmond doesn't set the cup down but it's obvious he’s done with it with how he holds it, arms and hands stiff. Callum isn't even sure where he’s getting these things - these bowls and knives and even napkins that the guy fiddles with all the time - they dissolve completely the moment he sets them down. Clay’s laughter usually follows so he’d like to think the blond did something with them. “I think most assassins would agree. My dad, namely. I might've been good at mixing alcoholic drinks once. L- .. my .. teammates seemed to appreciate it, anyways.”

Clay makes a noise of agreement, a wanton noise of deep approval and giddiness that has Callum shooting him a bemused look - or rather at the ceiling. Only Clay’s hands are visible. “Assassin training at it's finest. Best ever use of quick reflexes! Ask Dessy boy to show you his moves next time! It's like pchaw, shishaw, whoosh! A literal godsend when he’s not making coffee monsters.” He flails his arms in some kind of exaggerated motion, one that Desmond seems to understand because he looks deeply embarrassed but Callum is only lost. It almost looks like he’s having a hand seizure. Was Clay trying to mimic some kind of arm-focused juggling act?

“Bartending,” Desmond explains and perhaps in another circumstance it would but Callum can only blink blankly, uncomprehending. Whatever Clay just demonstrated certainly did not look like a ‘bartending’ skill set.

Callum’s own explanation of it was likely something he had seen in a bar before, probably the last night he had been free before Abstergo. He still wasn't sorry about killing that pimp though. In fact, maybe Clay looked vaguely like that bartender that night?

Clay must have read his thoughts because his head swivels towards him with a wild manic grin. His comment is completely unrelated with a, “_Tea_, though - tea is just nasty.” He finally dislodges and drops down from the ceiling. He stretches and rests his arms behind is head as he leans against the table. Desmond makes a noncommittal noise, didn't agree or disagree. Callum personally leaned towards the latter; tea wasn't his forté either.

“Coffee is still good I guess,” Desmond affirms, back to their original topic. Clay ‘pshhhh’s and pulls a face. Steam doesn't rise but Callum knows it's hot, has seen Desmond wince a few times when he’s taken a sip with a slightly disgusted grimace and the kind of heavy breathing someone has when they burn their tongue.

“You have a lot of ‘feelings’ about it,” Callum agrees, confirming Desmond’s earlier statement. There’s a twitch to the younger man’s shoulders, enough for Callum to realize that perhaps his words were a little too mocking or cut a little too deeply to be ones of simply agreement.

“Yes,” Desmond laments, finally, “It's surprising the kinds of things you miss.” He brings the cup up to his face, a forlorn smile at the corner of his lips. He inhales softly and the action shouldn't have been as sad as it is. “I almost remember what it smells and tastes like sometimes.” The air is a little heavier then, as if Desmond can say more but he doesn't and the silence lingers. The admission feels thicker than he thinks it should.

Although Callum is very much uncertain on what to say to that. It's a little too overwhelming to consider the implications of it. Why do it? Why drink it? Even when they weren't compared to each other, Clay is extraordinarily bizarre and Desmond is so mundane it hurts. Callum isn't sure why he would forbid his own illusion from being able to drink coffee.

The chatter down the hallway is increasing. The footfalls are above the silence, announcing their presence. Moussa has probably heard him talk, then. He closes his eyes and rubs the heel of his palm into his brow. Sometimes, he feels like he doesn't deserve Moussa’s kindness.

“You wanting to head into the animus today, kid?” comes the gruff voice of the Mentor Assassin and Callum blinks. Desmond and Clay are gone, no traces left in the air. No scent of coffee or even a hint of Clay’s sniggers. Not even the ominous creep down his arms. He’s not surprised.

He thinks about it for a split second, catches sight of the mug in the Mentor’s hands. It's crisp and clean and steam rises up easily. It's also the same cup that Desmond had.

He definitely needed new inspirations for his hallucinations.

Callum considers the alternatives. He shoots a glance towards the counter where he knows the can of instant coffee beans are. Considers what both Clay and Desmond said. He pushes off the counter and gives an affirming nod. “Yeah, I'm good.” Maybe on another day would he consider indulging his crazy side. Not today.


End file.
